I Arise From Dreams of Thee
by Bekah1218
Summary: Molly Holmes reminisces about her life with Sherlock. WARNING- Character death(s)


I Arise From Dreams of Thee

 **A/N Not written for profit, no copyright infringement intended.**

Molly Holmes removed the ginger cat from her lap and got up from the rocking chair by the fireplace. An empty chair on the other side was the current residence of another feline, a white Turkish Angora with odd eyes - left one green, right one blue. Somehow he had known, when she brought him from the rescue shelter, that this chair was his now – she supposed that Sherlock would have approved. The cat was affectionate with her, but aloof with strangers. The other two cats, one grey tabby and a long-haired calico, were sat on the sofa, dozing. Molly guessed she was really a crazy old cat lady now - but they were company in this house that had become too large thirteen years ago, when Sherlock had left her.

She went into the kitchen, where photo albums were sitting on the table, one open. Molly switched the kettle on and waited for it to boil, fixing one lonely cup of tea, which still seemed one too few, even after all this time. She placed two chocolate digestives on a saucer - she still bought Sherlock's favourite biscuits, even now. When the water had boiled, she poured it into her mug and sat at the table in front of the album. It was an overcast, chilly day, and she was in the mood to reminisce. She turned the pages slowly, smiling fondly at the pictures of Sherlock, especially the ones at the beginning of the book, and of their life together.

There were a few of them before their wedding - taken mostly by John or Mary, a few by Meena from Barts. Sherlock looked vaguely uncomfortable in the first ones, gradually relaxing into the relationship when others were around, even their closest friends. It was all a new thing for him - he had guarded his heart for so many years, but was, in the end, helpless before Molly's unconditional love.

Once they had made their relationship public, they had wasted no time in getting married. They had chosen an old Celtic hand-fasting ceremony, officiated by none other than one Mycroft Holmes, who pulled all sorts of strings to let them have the wedding they wished. It was a small group, only their friends and family – held at the Holmes parents' home in Gloucestershire. Siger Holmes' gardens were beautiful, and they needed no other decoration but a simple posey for Molly to carry, and she wore an equally simple gown of flowered silk, her long hair gathered into a crown of fresh flowers. Molly turned the page and again smiled faintly at the pressed blossoms there.

On the opposite side of the album from the flowers, there was a copy of their ceremony. It was a very old one, but suited them perfectly. Molly could still hear every word as she read on.

When Molly joined Sherlock at the arch of flowers in the garden, Mycroft began:

"Know now before you go further, that ever since your lives have crossed in this life you have formed ties between each other.

"As you seek to enter this state of matrimony, you should strive to make real the ideals which give meaning to both this ceremony and the institution of marriage.

"Do you still seek to enter this ceremony?"  
(Molly and Sherlock) "We do."

Mycroft next told them to join hands and said, "Now for the Blessing of the Hands.

These are the hands that will passionately love you and cherish you through the years, for a lifetime of happiness.

These are the hands that will countless times wipe the tears from your eyes: tears of sorrow and tears of joy.

These are the hands that will comfort you in illness, and hold you when fear or grief racks your mind.

These are the hands that will hold you tight as you struggle through difficult times.

These are the hands that will give you support and encourage you to chase your dreams. Together, everything you wish for can be realized."

He then prepared the cords - they were made of white and grey silk entwined.

"Today we will use these cords to symbolize the bindings, or promises."

The first promise -

(Mycroft) "Sherlock, Will you be Molly's faithful partner for life?"  
(Sherlock) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Molly, will you be Sherlock's faithful partner for life?"  
(Molly) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Will you be each other's constant friends and one true love?"  
(Molly and Sherlock) "We will."

The first cord is draped across Molly and Sherlock's hands.  
(Mycroft) "And so the first binding is made."

The second promise -

(Mycroft) "Molly, do you promise to love Sherlock without reservation?"  
(Molly) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Sherlock, do you promise to love Molly without reservation?"  
(Sherlock) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Will both of you stand by one another in sickness and in health, in plenty and in want?"  
(Molly and Sherlock) "We will."

The second cord is draped across Molly and Sherlock's hands.  
(Mycroft) "And so the second binding is made."

The third promise -

(Mycroft) "Molly, will you stand together with Sherlock in your times of joy and sorrow?"  
(Molly) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Sherlock, will you stand together with Molly in your times of joy and sorrow?"  
(Sherlock) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Will you share the burdens of each other so that your spirits may grow in this union?"  
(Molly and Sherlock) "We will."

The third cord is draped across Molly and Sherlock's hands.  
(Mycroft) "And so the third binding is made."

The fourth promise -

(Mycroft) "Sherlock,will you always strive to be open and honest with Molly, for as long as you both shall live?"  
(Sherlock) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Molly, will you always strive to be open and honest with Sherlock, for as long as you both shall live?"  
(Molly) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Will you dream together to create new realities and hopes for this marriage?"  
(Molly and Sherlock) "We will."

The fourth cord is draped across Molly and Sherlock's hands.  
(Mycroft) "And so the forth binding is made."

The fifth promise -  
(Mycroft) "Molly, Will you honour this man?"  
(Molly) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Sherlock, Will you honour this woman?"  
(Sherlock) "I will."

(Mycroft) "Will you both seek to cherish and strengthen that honour?"  
(Molly and Sherlock) "We will."

The fifth cord is draped across Molly and Sherlock's hands.  
(Mycroft) "And so the fifth binding is made."

Binding of all promises -

(Mycroft) "The knots of this binding are not formed by these cords but instead by your vows. Either of you may drop the cords, for as always, you hold in your own hands the making or breaking of this union."

The cords are removed and placed on the altar - a small table draped with rose-coloured silk. Mycroft picks up the rings and hands one to Molly and the other to Sherlock.

(Mycroft) "Sherlock, have you a ring for your bride?"

(Sherlock) " I do. Because this ring is perfectly symmetrical, it signifies the perfection of true love. As I place it on your finger, I give you all that I am and ever hope to be."

(Mycroft) "Molly, do you have a ring for your groom?"

(Molly) " I do. Because this ring has no end or beginning, it signifies the continuation of true love. As I place it on your finger, I give you all that I am and ever hope to be."

(Mycroft) "Let these rings serve not as locks binding you together, but as keys, unlocking the secrets of your hearts for each other to know, and thus bringing you closer together forever. Now, it is my honour and pleasure to introduce you as husband and wife. Ladies and gentlemen - Molly and Sherlock Holmes."

Molly continued through their wedding photos, smiling as she looked at Sherlock, so handsome in his dove-grey suit, white shirt open at the throat, of course - no ties! His buttonhole matched her flowers and he was smiling - his true smile – which she could never see enough. There were photos of them with the cords binding their hands - they had both loved the old hand-fasting ceremony, and thought it beautifully illustrated their commitment to each other. It all seemed so close, yet so much had passed since then...

He had his first stroke at 48, retiring from casework then. His speech and fine motor skills had come nearly completely back with physio - and occupational therapy, but his right leg remained weaker than the left, and she urged him to accept his new reality. She was surprised when he did so and set about moving house to their cottage in Sussex, bought from Janine years ago, after that dreadful affair with Magnussen. His beloved Strad had certainly helped him with the hands - he was determined to play again and did, nearly as well as before.

They had made a lab there in Sussex, in an outbuilding, so Sherlock could work on his experiments, which she helped him with when she could. The house was perfect for the two of them, and she happily began to do more household activities. She learnt to make all manner of jams, and how to preserve fruits and vegetables, even baking bread - although Sherlock's always tasted better (it was a fascinating chemistry experiment to him). She took up crocheting again (she had learnt from her mother as a young girl) and made them each several throws and blankets to keep them warm through the chill weather.

Another avocation they both enjoyed was the honeybees. Sherlock had been fascinated by their colony structure and society for ages, and as soon as they moved there, hives were set up. He spent hours out there in the meadow, observing which flowers and shrubs they preferred, and checking it against the taste of the honey in the autumn. Molly overcame her initial reluctance and also learnt how to maintain the hives, since Sherlock would sometimes still consult at home on a case, and get sidetracked. The honey harvest was an annual event, which was well-attended by their neighbours, and by Rosie and Amelia Watson, John and Mary's girls - well, women now, with their own families.

Molly resumed her wander through the photo albums. She felt both less and more lonely as she paged through the memories. She still wept a little every time she saw the photos of Mrs. Hudson, who had been like a second mother to Sherlock, now long gone but never forgotten. Molly paused and smiled at the last photo taken of Sherlock's parents together. Despite all the bluster from both sons, they were both devastated when first Father, and then Mummy, passed. It was the first time she saw Mycroft actually weep.

Except for the Watson girls, Molly was the only one left of their old band of friends. John had passed first, from a car crash, twenty years ago - and Mary had followed only a year behind. She had never seemed quite whole again, even after moving in with Rosie and her family. Rosie found her one morning when she didn't answer her daily wake-up call. She rushed to her mother's room, only to find Mary looking more peaceful than she had since John died, with a slight smile on her face.

After both parents were gone, the Watson girls and their families visited Sherlock and Molly often. It seemed they could sense a presence there of their parents, with the friends they had both loved for so many years. Molly and Sherlock were happy to see them any time, as they had never been blessed with children. Oh, they had tried, but after three miscarriages, Sherlock had gently suggested they not try again, it was too painful for the both of them. Molly agreed, both sad and relieved. There were a series of dogs for Sherlock, and cats for Molly, who became the only children they would have.

Somehow, they made their peace with this, and moved on. Sherlock's last dog, Gladstone, a setter/spaniel cross, died four years after his master. He was buried with all the other pets, in the same plot where Sherlock lay, as was only fitting for family.

Even Mycroft had not been able to protect his little brother, in the end. Sherlock had developed an arrhythmia, and was put on several heart medications. They made him dizzy and prone to feeling faint if he rose too quickly, but he took them faithfully, and did the cardiac exercises his doctor recommended. He and Molly took daily walks around the gardens and to the hives, which was approved activity. In spite of this, he steadily declined over the next few years. Molly worried constantly and tried everything she knew to help him, but nothing seemed to work.

His hair had turned silver almost overnight, after the first heart attack. He never really bounced back from that one, and a second stroke combined with another heart attack on Christmas Eve thirteen years ago proved to be fatal, although he initially rallied in the A&E. By that time, he was only a shadow of the man Molly had loved for so long. He had needed so much help to do ordinary things, and she knew it both embarrassed and agitated him. After nearly 48 hours, he had slipped quietly away, holding her hand and looking into her eyes until his grip loosened, the light in his beautiful eyes dimmed, and she knew he was gone.

After finally leaving him to the care of the hospital staff, Molly went sadly home. She stood in the lounge for a moment, then put her coat back on and went out to the hives. She knew it was what Sherlock would have wanted. The bees still needed to be checked, and she had to tell them the sad news. For generations, bee-keepers had "told the bees" of any news, especially deaths, in the family. She shook the ring of keys she had brought with her over each hive and said, "Little sisters, little sisters, your master has died – but I will be here as before, to care for you."

She then covered each hive in black mourning cloth and turned them to face the little cemetery, knowing that in a few days, Sherlock would be laid to rest there, and the bees should be able to see the funeral procession. It was an ancient folk legend that Sherlock had for some reason, taken to heart - and she dare not dishonour the custom. She felt a little lighter after, as if she had shared her burden with others who had loved him, insects though they were. Molly returned to the house, now dark inside - she had forgot to light the lamp before she went out to the hives.

The day of Sherlock's funeral, Molly, Mycroft, the girls, and some friends from the village gathered in the back garden. It was a stormy day, which Molly always remembered as fitting the occasion. Even the weather seemed to be grieving Sherlock's loss.

The local librarian read a favourite poem that Sherlock had always loved:

"Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"

With the reading, the small service was complete. Molly felt no need of clergy - neither of them were religious, and she could just imagine Sherlock tutting if a vicar or priest said prayers over him. The gravediggers set to their work after the family and friends went into the house for food and remembrances.

Two weeks later, a new headstone was set in place – it read William Sherlock Scott Holmes and the dates, with a simple epitaph :

I think I'll miss you forever,

Like the stars miss the sun in the morning skies

Molly planted more flowers around the grave – she wanted Sherlock's bees to visit him

as they flew on their rounds to gather pollen. She planted bee balm and sweet Williams, and morning glories so that they would wind around the stone. She went to bed every night, held his pillow, and cried when the smell of his cologne could no longer be detected. She made sure to always have some on hand, and once in a while, when she missed him more than usual, sprinkled a little on the sheets and his pillowcase. She didn't care if anyone noticed and thought it odd.

She didn't notice that she had continued to cook for his cardiac diet for two months - even after, she seldom allowed herself the treats he could not have for so many years. Somehow she got through the days and the months, and eventually, the years, without him. He still seemed so close some days - she could swear she heard him call her name sometimes, but never told anyone for fear they'd call the girls and tell then she was acting strangely.

The people in the village were friendly and she met a few women she knew for lunch occasionally, but never dated. Even after five years, when one of the local men asked

her out for dinner, she politely said, "No, thank you." No other men approached her after that, respecting her grief and loyalty even after death.

Mycroft had joined his little brother just seven years ago. He was buried in Gloucestershire with their parents and other family. His funeral was a state affair, with many members of the peerage and royalty attending, in deference to his many years of service to Queen - now King- and country. Molly planted a small wisteria near a trellis in his honour at the cottage and felt even more alone. She lived on, surrounded by her cats and by visits from the girls and their families.

She was now 83 - and still wondered sometimes how she had reached such an age, with so much sorrow surrounding her for so long. She had stayed in excellent health, and still tended the hives. She was teaching Aidan, a young man from the village, how to care for them, and about the lore of the honeybee, which Sherlock had loved so much. She was still able to care for herself, although she accepted Aidan's offers of driving her to the shops and helping her carry in the parcels after.

She kept in touch with the girls via the internet, and occasionally visited John's old blog, which was still up, and run by a member of the Met. She smiled to read the old cases, remembering how young they all were back then.

She always remembered the very first time Sherlock Holmes had brashly breezed through the morgue doors, demanding to see a body – and Mike Stamford introducing them. She knew that she had fallen in love with him right there and then. It had taken a few more years for Sherlock to realise he felt the same...

Molly sighed, and got up from her chair - time to go check on the hives and then think about getting some dinner on to cook. The cats were also lining up to be fed - she shooed them out of her way, telling them that they had to wait a bit, and headed out the back door, pulling her coat more snugly around her shoulders.

The hives were all right, but would soon need to be prepared for the winter - she would have Aidan over to help her with this, so he would know how to do it. She had often told the bees that when she was no longer there, he would be their new master. She didn't like to leave it to chance that someone else would tell them. If they thought they had no master or mistress, the bees would leave, so the ancient wisdom said.

Returning to the house, Molly fed the cats and warmed up some stew she had made the day before. This she had with some granary bread, and a cup of tea with honey. After eating, she washed the few dishes, drying them and putting them away before she headed in to watch a bit of telly before going to bed. When her show was over, she checked to see that the fire was properly banked for the night. She glanced over at Sherlock's chair, half-expecting, as always, to see her husband sitting there smiling at her fondly. She shook her head at the fanciful thought and continued towards the back of the house.

She went to the loo and performed her nightly routine, cleaning her teeth and brushing out her long hair - she had never cut it after Sherlock had told her shyly that he loved it long, only ever having the ends trimmed. During the day she mostly wore it up, but at night she always brushed it out loose or braided it. Tonight she left it loose. She turned out the light and went to bed, shooing all the cats out. Sherlock had never allowed animals in their bed, and she did not alter the pattern without him.

She dreamt, as she so often did, of Sherlock. He looked, as he always did in her dreams, about the age he was when they had met. Young, rude, cocky, swooping into the lab in that wonderful Belstaff coat with the red buttonholes, purple cashmere scarf wound round his long, elegant neck. He had looked like a Byronic vampire, moody and dangerous - and Molly was lost the first time she looked into those quicksilver eyes. She smiled slightly in her sleep, remembering.

Molly dreamt that they walked to many of their old favourite places, in London and nearby the cottage. The dark streets and fields were silent as they swept over them, feet barely touching the ground, as so often happens in dreams. Here was the church where they had solved a murder, there a bench where they used to sit and watch the swans in Regent's Park. Here was the stream where a number of Sherlock's dogs had loved to play, coming home from walks soaking wet, tongues lolling, with Sherlock laughing like a small boy at the ridiculous sight. She could imagine one of them alongside him now, as they travelled along.

After their walk, they returned to the cottage and sat down by the fire. Molly could see him in his chair again, and that filled her with joy - even if it _was_ in a dream, she was happy to see him there, looking so well and fit again. They spoke of everything and nothing, as they used to do, and her heart was warmed by the interaction. Then, at the end of the evening, they went to their room and to bed.

Molly slipped into a deeper sleep and the dreams faded.

She was awakened by the morning sun coming through the curtain lace, or so she thought. Thinking she heard someone calling her name, she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Sitting in the chair beside the bed was Sherlock, in his Belstaff and scarf, smiling at her and holding a cat – was that Toby? She must still be dreaming, Molly thought. Then she saw Sherlock shaking his head and heard him say, "No, love, not still asleep. Did you think I'd leave you alone to find your way after all these years? I've been watching, you know. It's apparently against the rules, but – rules - pfft! Did they expect Sherlock Holmes to sit around playing the harp - erm – violin - all day for aeons? Dead boring, that - pun _definitely_ intended. Anyway, as I was saying..."

Molly was trying to shake herself, pinch herself, anything to wake up. Nothing helped. She spluttered, "Sherlock? Wha- what?"

He smirked at her confusion. "Molly, look around you - does it get this bright all at once in the autumn? No. Then, what do you think? When you eliminate the impossible..."

"Oh, you infuriating man! What are you trying to say? Just spit it out, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, right now!"

"Molly," he said, more gently now, "Take my hand, stand up, and look around you. What do you see?"

"What do I _see_? Why, just our room, and – oh!" she paused, as she saw herself still lying on their bed – but she was now also standing by Sherlock's side, holding his hand - and she could _feel_ it there, in hers. She looked down at herself, and was stunned to see she also appeared about thirty, her hair was back to its warm brown with cinnamon highlights, still long and plaited over her right shoulder. She felt the wedding ring on Sherlock's long finger, she could smell his cologne. She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him – that felt real, as well. His dark curls felt so good under her hands again, and she ran her fingers through them for a moment.

His smile grew wider. "Now you're getting there, Hooper. We've got to leave shortly – not to worry, Aidan will be here early and will alert the authorities. So - what do you say - want to come stay with me forever? There are lots of people you haven't seen in a long time - and some you haven't met. Ready?" He put his other arm around her and they were off.

She looked down and saw the cottage below her as they swept along. There was no sense of time as they passed over houses and fields. Finally, they touched down in what seemed to be a garden much like his father's in Gloucestershire. It was sunny and there were flowers blooming and birds singing everywhere she looked. There were - yes!- honeybees flying about, gathering pollen. She saw a group of people coming toward them. There were Siger, Violet, Mycroft, John, Mary... and a group of three younger people who were new to her, but strangely familiar. She looked up at Sherlock with questions in her eyes.

He held her tightly and motioned for the young people to come nearer. "Molly," he said even more gently, "This is Caroline, and Hamish, and Scott – our children."

She wept and laughed as they all hugged her and said how much they had missed her – she looked helplessly at Sherlock, but he was just holding her, still gently smiling. To hear herself being called, "Mum," was the sweetest thing she had ever heard - except for Sherlock's beloved voice.

There was a touch of his old smirk as he said, "Who'd have thought there really _is_ an afterlife? Not precisely anyone's version of it, I am sure - but here we are, so I have been forced to believe it exists! Ah - John, Mary, Mummy, Dad, Mycroft, let's show Molly around a bit, shall we? You lot, too -" he said, laughing at their children – their _children_!

While they were all busy greeting each other after so very long, Molly noticed another thing - everywhere she looked were their cats and dogs. One Irish Setter was stuck to Sherlock's side like glue - Redbeard, she supposed, taking his rightful pride of place beside his master. They all walked together through the garden toward a large house at the end of the path...

In Sussex, a young man was draping the hives with black cloth, shaking a ring of keys and telling the bees, "Little sisters, little sisters, your mistress has died." But the bees knew the secret, and did not mourn...

 *** Title taken from the poem, The Indian Serenade, by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The poem read at the funeral is by Henry Scott-Holland.**


End file.
